Wanted: a declaration of independence for the world

In the final extract from his provocative new book, the Dignity of Difference, chief rabbi Jonathan Sacks calls for a 'covenant of hope' while, below, he argues that anti-semitism in Britain is not on the rise

Our global situation today is not unlike the condition of European nations during the great wars of religion of the 16th and 17th centuries in the wake of the Reformation. Then, as now, there were many societies riven by conflict. The question arose: how can people of violently conflicting beliefs live peaceably together? Out of that crisis came the idea variously framed by Hobbes, Locke and Rousseau - of a social contract by which individuals agree to cede certain private powers to a central authority charged with the maintenance of order and pursuit of the common good.

We are not in sight of a global contract whereby nation states agree to sacrifice part of their sovereignty to create a form of world governance. There is, however, an alternative, namely a global covenant. Covenants are more foundational than contracts. Social covenants create societies; social contracts create states. The relation between covenant and contract is akin to that between the American Declaration of Independence (1776) and the Constitution (1789). The latter specifies the constitutional structure of the state, the former the moral principles of the society on which it is founded. Covenants are beginnings, acts of moral engagement. They are couched in broad terms whose precise meaning is the subject of ongoing debate but which stand as touchstones, ideals, reference points against which policies and practices are judged. What we need now is not a contract bringing into being a global political structure, but rather a covenant framing our shared vision for the future of humanity.

One idea links the first chapter of Genesis to the Declaration of Independence, namely that "all men are created equal". Philip Selznick's articulation of this idea seems to me compelling: "Moral equality", he writes, "is the postulate that all persons have the same intrinsic worth. They are unequal in talents, in contributions to social life, and in valid claims to rewards and resources. But everyone who is a person is presumptively entitled to recognition of that personhood." Accordingly, each is entitled to "the basic conditions that make life possible, tolerable and hopeful" - to what they need to sustain "their dignity and integrity as persons". That is at least a starting point for a global covenant in which the nations of the world collectively express their commitment not only to human rights but also to human responsibilities, and not merely a political, but also an economic, environmental, moral and cultural conception of the common good, constructed on the twin foundations of shared humanity and respect for diversity.

One of the most important distinctions I have learned in the course of reflection on Jewish history is the difference between optimism and hope. Optimism is the belief that things will get better. Hope is the faith that, together, we can make things better. Optimism is a passive virtue, hope an active one. It takes no courage to be an optimist, but it takes a great deal of courage to have hope. Knowing what we do of our past, no Jew can be an optimist. But Jews have never - despite a history of sometimes awesome suffering - given up hope. Not for nothing did they call the national anthem of their new state "Hatikvah", meaning hope.

Hope does not exist in a conceptual vacuum, nor is it available to all configurations of culture. It is born in the belief that the sources of action lie within ourselves. Hope is the knowledge that we can choose; that we can learn from our mistakes and act differently next time; that history is not what Joseph Heller called it, a "trashbag of random coincidences blown open by the wind", but a long, slow journey to redemption, whatever the digressions and false turns along the way.

Hope is a human virtue, but one with religious underpinnings. At its ultimate it is the belief not that God has written the script of history, that He will intervene to save us from the error of our ways or protect us from the worst consequences of evil, but simply that He is mindful of our aspirations, with us in our fumbling efforts, that He has given us the means to save us from ourselves; that we are not wrong to dream, wish and work for a better world. In the end, great systems of thought are self- validating. To one who believes that the human condition is essentially tragic, the human condition will reveal itself as a series of tragedies. To one who believes that we can rewrite the script, history reveals itself as a series of slow, faltering steps to a more gracious social order.

Difference does not diminish; it enlarges the sphere of human possibilities. Our last best hope is to recall the classic statement of John Donne and the more ancient story of Noah after the Flood and hear, in the midst of our hypermodernity, an old-new call to a global covenant of human responsibility and hope. Only when we realise the danger of wishing that everyone should be the same - the same faith on the one hand, the same McWorld on the other - will we prevent the clash of civilizations, born of the sense of threat and fear. We will learn to live with diversity once we understand the God-given, world-enhancing dignity of difference.

Britain remains a tolerant country

First, I do not think that anti-semitism is a major factor in British life. Second, anti-semitism should not be at the heart of Jewish identity. We should not be haunted by it; there is no coherent identity that can be built on it.

The Jews of the 19th century made a tragic mistake: they stopped defining themselves as a people loved by God, defining themselves instead as a people hated by gentiles. No healthy self-image can come of that. And therefore I have not accentuated anti-semitism. I have deliberately downplayed it.

There are big differences between now and the threats of the past. For one thing, there is a state of Israel now, and that means all of us can react in a sober and balanced way: there is now a safe haven for Jews. And, for another, there is more Islamophobia today than anti-semitism.

All societies have been destablilised in recent months. But when Britain is destabilised the state it reverts to is tolerance. Even under stress, Britain remains a tolerant country. The anti-semitism of the past used to exist in literary circles, in certain class groups, but it never entered the mainstream of British political debate. No candidate ever got elected in Britain on an anti-semitic platform.

I see three distinct positions: legitimate criticism of Israel, anti-Zionism and anti-semitism. Anti-Zionism can certainly become a form of anti-semitism when it becomes an attack on the collective right of the Jewish people to defensible space. If any people in history have earned the right to defensible space it is the Jewish people.

But anti-semitism and anti-Zionism are different things. We're hearing more voices in Britain now who are denying Israel's right to exist and I have to fight that - but I don't confuse that with an assault on me as the bearer of a religious tradition.